


turn to salt, dandelion wine

by flailingthroughsanity



Series: a language only we can understand [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Touch-Starved, penpals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: Because Keith’s great, he’s calm and he’s a smile, and he’s a half-written poem that’s been kept shelved in between pages of an old journal gathering dust — a poet’s unfinished work, whiskey-stained and forgotten. So, when Shiro's finally here, within physical reach, he must understand why Keith just wants to touch him, right?He must get that, right?





	turn to salt, dandelion wine

**Author's Note:**

> Something short for this series - I'm happy I got inspiration today to write this! No letters for this entry - not that I will stop with them (they'll make a feature in future installments) but I think Keith and Shiro need to talk about things without cover, to really get things out into the open.
> 
> Keith deals with the reality that Shiro is within his reach, and not just something he knew only through letters and polaroids. Things are said, and agreed on and it's one step forward into their relationship.
> 
> Playlist:  
> [[YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLl3x1Z8e2l8hETAhIrk1UBcFpz0RF0G5A)]  
> [[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3s4VQLIitjPxvBN6cMrIRI)]

Light filtered through the curtains, gold greyed-out. Lint, dust – who knows, really – floated in the air, and they almost twinkled. Nothing moved in the quiet, and Keith burrowed himself deeper into the blankets. The bed creaked, and he shivered – his bare back felt cold.

He was ready to turn and return to sleep, when he paused. No, he hadn’t gone to bed only to wake up cold. No, he hadn’t been alone.

No, not unless the memories of slowly pulling off an old military jacket to reveal gold skin had been his imagination. Not unless Shiro’s eyes burned gold in the lamplight as he stood, watching Keith and his hands, trailing over his muscles and the wound on his right shoulder where his arm was supposed to be. Not when running into Shiro’s arms in the airport had been a dream that he managed to form, somehow.

A hand groped for another, and meeting only the cotton-white sheets, he turned – confused. Shiro wasn’t beside him.

The blanket fell when he sat up, looking around the quiet room. Everything was in place – everything Keith owned – and if he blinked and missed, if his gaze passed too fast over the cabinets and the rugs, it might almost seem like a dream.

His heart gallops and skips, but it shudders when Keith looked about – until his sight falls on the backpack nestled by the door. Tan. Practical use. Efficiency.

He didn’t own a bag like that. That must mean something, then.

“Shiro?” He called out, brows furrowed as he slowly made his way out of bed. Early mornings were cold – the wooden panels and the walls frigid, creaking with every step. The windows were foggy. Moist caught on the glass of his watch.

Keith spied a shirt on a seat near him – grey and three sizes larger than him – and, after a moment of contemplation, grabbed and put it over his head.

“I’m here.” He turned, and saw Shiro standing by the door. He looked—

He looked okay. He looked  _ okay. _ Keith thought. He’s okay.

He doesn’t know why he was worried, or why the fear was there in the first place. He’s not – Keith’s not  _ sure _ of a lot of things, on what this meant. He’s never felt this way for anyone before. What do people do in a situation like this?

Was it normal to worry for someone like that? Keith’s not really sure if it’s just  _ worry _ , though. It burned deeper than that – something about needing to see Shiro, to know he’s nearby. Not possessively, no – Keith would like to think it isn’t.

“I just,” he started, voice unsure. He gestured to the bed with a hand, confused with what he wanted to say (or if the words he wanted to use would mean what they were supposed to mean). He ended up shrugging – unable to get a single one out.

Shiro continued to look at him – and Keith noted his state. Dark hair up in messy tendrils, sleep lines down his cheeks and tired taupe eyes never losing their luster. He was shirtless, thin boxers low on his hips and Keith bit his tongue at expanse of gold skin and the relaxed muscles lining his chest and abdomen. He looked – good.

Keith can’t help but think – think of how  _ domestic _ this is, waking to the sight of Shiro, a study of silver in the spring sunlight. A hundred dozen words, sheets of colored paper and polaroid photos couldn’t hold up to him – and he was Keith’s.

“Sorry,” Shiro answered, the corner of his lip curling up in a gentle smile, shifting his weight to the other foot, left arm against the door jamb. “I had to use the toilet.”

“Oh,” Keith nodded, eyes still on him, “that’s good. Right?”

Shiro didn’t say a word for a moment, before a lopsided smile crept up his lips. Pretty, no,  _ beautiful.  _ He looked better that way. Best. He looked best smiling – pale pink lips, gentle, and a slip of teeth. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the taupe gleamed like ochre when that happened.

“Yeah.” Shiro chuckled, cheeks tight as he laughed. “Wouldn’t want to hurt my bladder.”

“Right.” Keith agreed, nodding. It struck him then – the things he’s been saying. He feels his face flush, the sleep long gone as he realized how stupid he must seem. “Sorry, I just woke up. I’m not—“

_ I’m not as witty and eloquent facing you compared to my letters. Keith, in the lines of prose and colored paper – the one that seemed like a poet. That’s – that’s not me. I’m not that Keith. Facing you, I’m just a clumsy man with clumsy words stringing along the first few words of a gaudy love letter with love-dumb fingers. _

Keith shrugged. “I’m not a morning person.”

Shiro’s chuckle died a while ago, but the smile on his face is still there. There’s something about it—

There’s something sad, and old, in that smile and Keith guessed it might have to do with the absent right arm, with the remaining part still covered in off-white bandages. Never red, Keith’s noticed yesterday. Not red anymore.

Still – that smile, the one Shiro has now, it just cuts through Keith, like Shiro sees something he couldn’t and there’s a question in those eyes, and an emotion Keith doesn’t recognize. Or maybe he’s recognized it and just doesn’t want to admit it, or maybe just the fact that he’s afraid to admit it. It’s not like this is something Keith’s familiar with. He’s never been in a relationship like this before, and, sure, he can go out and read a book or a pamphlet on relationships but this was different. This was Shiro.

Shiro’s smile is an enigma and a puzzle and it’s as clear as day, because Shiro doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything.

“I may have guessed.” Shiro agreed, and it took a while for Keith to remember what they were talking about. He’s also noted that he’s been standing for a while now – and that Shiro was looking at what he was wearing. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Keith nodded, a hand trailing to feel for the dog tag under it – over his heart. He’s gotten so used to the metal, for so many months – he forgot that he even had it occasionally.

Shiro’s eyes are warm – too warm, too  _ taupe _ , like he wants to drown Keith in them. Keith’s hand is itching for something, something he wanted as he looked back at Shiro, unafraid to meet his gaze.

Shiro takes a step into the room, and extends an arm. His voice was low, deep – it pooled in Keith’s belly and chased the shivers out of his back. “C’mere, Keith.”

He didn’t wait for Shiro to finish saying his name – not even half a second in. The moment Shiro took a step forward, Keith was itching to run into his arms and just  _ feel _ him. He rushed into the other so fast – it would have been embarrassing, but he didn’t care. No, he didn’t – not at all.

Keith’s arms locked around Shiro, pulling him close – tight. He honestly – he just doesn’t know where it came from: this need, this strength to hold Shiro, to wrap himself around the other in the hopes of making sure he’ll never let go. This close, with his cheek pressed against Shiro’s chest, he can smell him. Cedar, rich – something that reminded Keith of evergreen. It was intoxicating—

Shiro’s scent. Like a high, like the best goddamn high.

He felt an arm around him tighten, and Keith wouldn’t even begin to pretend that he was bothered. No, not at all. If the way Shiro shuddered in his arms, and breathed in air so deep – nose pressed to the crown of Keith’s hair – then it’s not just Keith who has been wanting this, wanting this with an ache so bad it thudded against his chest.

Shiro was warm – warm and alive – and it seeped through Shiro’s shirt, the one Keith was wearing, and past the dog tag like a heat conductor and Keith couldn’t help closing his eyes, wrapped so completely in Shiro’s molten-sun and desert salts. His skin felt charged, pressed against Keith’s like this – and his lips traced soundless words against the side of Shiro’s pectorals, and their thighs touched and Keith could feel the tangle of the hair up Shiro’s legs against his and—

It’s just so wonderful, to be here, around Shiro and in Shiro’s arms.

For so long, he’s let the letters keep him safe, and he had allowed the ball-point ink of gentle, even strokes to conjure momentary warmth – some small way to feel, a chance to know how Keith would feel, wrapped up in Shiro’s arms. He had dreamt of it, spent morning staring outside the café window as steam rose from his coffee and he’d wonder – how would Shiro feel when he sat across Keith, their legs tangled under the table, ankles locked.

Keith’s never been the type to feel insecure about not being able to touch someone — or maybe he’s let the insecurity become so commonplace, routine, that he had forgotten to see it for what it really was: just the floating sense of existing, that momentary shock on walking through a crowded street, seeing faces pass and none recognizing him (some seeing through him, some not at all) and the slow fear festering in him, until it became a second skin, a layer that reminded him how out of touch he was, all this time.

Because Shiro’s here, and that fact shouldn’t be so staggering — it shouldn’t collide into Keith like a trainwreck, the rails swinging out of line, the tracks curling in on themselves the same way the air in his veins turn into helium, turn into birds that itch to soar out from under his skin, right? That Shiro being here, in his space — in the middle of all the things he owned and kept, the things he could safely call  _ his _ — it shouldn’t turn the lead into blood that reminded him he’s still alive, right?

It shouldn’t, but it did and maybe that’s just one part of the whole equation of Keith realizing how isolated he had kept himself. There was no explanation, or maybe it never needed one because— 

Shiro like this? He was just so –  _ big _ . Taller than Keith, shoulders wider and if Keith curled in himself just a bit, he’d carve out a niche in the shape of his own outline and still find more of Shiro left. He was just that big, that encompassing. Why does that make him feel so safe, and so secure? Why does the idea of Shiro covering him whole feel so safe, the same way a boulder to hide in a blizzard felt safe, the way the lining of his coat that shielded him from a harsh breeze and didn’t turn his eyes red felt warm and protected?

Shiro’s collarbone presses against his temple, and his nose presses close to a nipple and the cold of Shiro’s dog tag is lost in the heat between, and Keith couldn’t feel any lighter than how, where he was now.

It wasn’t so much a physical cold as it was that same cold that had started to carve itself a home deep inside him.

Was it too early to admit — that Keith had gone so long by himself, he’s recognized loneliness as an old friend that returned, over and over? That he’d gone so long on the desperation that it had turned into comfort, the quiet walls of his house that echoed the ghost that lived inside more and more each day?

It’s weird, right? It’s weird that it took this long for Keith to realize what’s been happening, and that the moment Shiro had come into life, spring rain finally found the cracks in the earth to breathe life into the fossilized roots underneath — right?

“You weren’t in bed.” The words slip before Keith could turn to catch them, but Shiro doesn’t loosen his grip, and he doesn’t turn to salt when Keith looks up to meet his gaze.

There’s just so much  _ heat _ and want in that gaze, it immolates Keith – funny, he doesn’t even feel himself catching fire. Only wrapped, safe, in the other’s arms – a soothing heartbeat dancing against his skin.

It’s just the heat, the security — the realization that he’s wrapped in the arms of another person. No, not just a person. A person that had tiptoed, slipped in between his defenses and broke the entire wall with a battering ram, painted in gold-silver and the coarse feel of sand and glinting metal.

It’s just the confirmation, that period at the end of the sentence, the last word on a letter and the dry ink on paper. It’s just the truth, that Keith would blink and he would turn and Shiro would not turn to salt.

“I’m here now.” Shiro murmured, lips pressed against the skin visible through the parted hair and Keith wanted to shudder at the feel of it, but he couldn’t – so wondrously was he enveloped, all notions of movement flew out the window and turned to dust in the spring light. Keith nodded, mouthing his response against Shiro’s bare skin.

“You’re here now.”

Maybe they decided to move, or maybe Shiro did and Keith followed or maybe it was the other way around. It didn’t really matter who started it – Keith, least of all. Somehow, a step or two backwards had them falling into bed again, and the mattress thumped under their weight.

Shiro guffawed, a choked-out laugh making its way out of his throat as he stared down at Keith under him. It wasn’t four in the afternoon – no, it was sometime between seven and eight in the morning, maybe, he doesn’t care – but the light was strong enough and Shiro’s eyes glittered.

“Hi.” Shiro greeted, smiling down at him. His arm was still around Keith, but he had a knee up to keep most of his weight off the other. Keith’s arms were still around Shiro’s middle, thumb grazing an illegible poem on the skin of his back.

Keith never realized how good that felt — and it’s the spark off a dynamite light, the way one realization opened the channels to others, and it’s just a relearning of who he really was and what he had now. The way Shiro’s fingers pressed and dipped along the lines of his back, how the arm slid under the too-big, too-cedar smelling like shirt, how the heat was a welcome touch on his back from the cold — it’s good.

There’s something so intimate about that, when Shiro lets his guard fall and allows himself the simple act of pencilling sonnets written in a language only they could understand, how the frissons of warmth and gentle arousal lapped and danced around his nerves, tickling the synapses and leading outward until Keith’s wrapped in it, unable and unwilling to leave.

“Hi.” Keith threw back, the cadence of his heart beat matching the other’s breathing as Shiro smiled so sweetly – tight-lipped, eyes warm – at him. “Come here.”

It’s because he needed more.

Now that he knew what it felt like — to know how a smile against his skin would feel like, how fingertips penning down beatitudes on his back felt like morning sunlight — he wanted more.

He wanted to feel all that — the weight, the intent, the entire body and compass and map that Takashi Shirogane was. He wanted to feel the desert sand piling in worn combat boots, the bent edges of a dog tag from pulling too much, the dark hair curling in against the skin and Keith wanted to feel all that, the life Shiro had lived, and the distance that’s finally been covered.

Shiro was here, and Shiro was in his arm.

Anybody can forgive Keith for being fucking greedy about it, right?

A slight look passed through Shiro’s eyes, his gaze running over Keith’s face. “I’m not exactly light, you know.”

Keith quirked the corner of his lip up, pulling him close with his arms. “I can take it.”

Then, before he could chicken out, he threw another one. “I like your weight on me.”

Once the words were out, Keith could no longer take them back. He watched the question in Shiro’s eyes come and fade, and a small – almost imperceptible – nod. He moved the hand from under Keith’s back, sliding it against the mattress and Keith arranged himself. He didn’t let go of Shiro, not even to loosen his grip. The dam had broken, and Keith was a wave that came home to the sea, lost in an ocean of gold and taupe.

Shiro would understand that need, right? Shiro must have, Keith hoped. Shiro had the perception, and he had always found a way to find Keith at the core of what he was, find some way to put a smile on his face be it in little notes and marks down margins of worn paper, or a story of two of two young boys wanting to be soldiers, or a smile on a polaroid photo that Keith held on to fiercely.

Shiro must understand that, right? That this need — that desire to really feel  _ real _ , to put to touch what they had, what they’ve been sharing for so long was not just the imagination, and was not just crossed signals because the words they wrote did not mean what they wanted to mean. Shiro must get that, right?

Because—

Because Keith’s great, he’s calm and he’s a smile, and he’s a half-written poem that’s been kept shelved in between pages of an old journal gathering dust. He was used to the solitude, to the lint in the air and the old sheet music nestled against him, and the photo of an old lover from years gone by the other way around. Keith’s used to that, to the notion of being hidden away — a poet’s unfinished work, whiskey-stained and forgotten, a burn hole where a cigarette had been haphazardly thrown.

Keith’s used to that — but not anymore, not when he now knows what it’s like to be pulled out into the daylight. Hiding is good and all, but the journal had been found and the pages scattered and he came flying out, a poet’s long gone litany to a lost cause, but Keith’s not lost and he’s not gone, and he’s held up into the shining light creasing through the old glass windows and the scratched surfaces and he finally remembered how it felt to be warm and to matter.

Shiro  _ must _ get that, right?

There was a slight crease to the edges of Shiro’s eyes, one that spoke of his balance and Keith kept himself from biting his lip, because the idea that Shiro still struggled with the loss of his right arm was a concept not entirely unknown to Keith. Shiro chose his words, and chose whatever ghosts he wanted to talk about and this one was kept close to his heart – as if pretending it wasn’t there was sparing Keith the burden of sharing it and Keith just—

He wanted to know, to find a way to make it easier for Shiro, but he wouldn’t press and it was not his right to ask. It was up to Shiro, for the other to tell him and until then, Keith was willing to wait.

Because he wanted Shiro close, the way he was now. He felt the weight on his thighs first, the press of Shiro’s hips. They were strong – Shiro’s muscles, Keith noted – corded but relaxed, easing gently against him, hesitant to come bearing down with full weight. It’s not just the weight of it, but the feel—

He wanted to feel the hair up Shiro’s calves and thighs, feel them scratch against his skin. He wanted to feel all those muscles — the ones on his belly, up his chest and over his wide shoulders — feel them when they’re tight and robust, but also when they’re relaxed, when Shiro didn’t need to be so strong, when Shiro can allow himself to lower his walls and guard and ease into Keith the way Keith could easily fall into him. He wanted the feel of his jaw under his lips, over his shoulder where the seam meet neck, against his collarbone digging into his skin until laughter broke out of Keith, painting the silent notes with bells and clangs and Shiro’s name from his lips.

He wanted all that — the touch, the weight, the intent, just the confirmation that Keith’s what Shiro had been waiting for, all this time.

Because Keith’s never felt this way for anyone, not the way he did for Shiro and he just wanted to know.  _ I’m not alone in this, right? _

Shiro never stopped looking at him – that silver gaze never broke, and they twisted and tumbled across Keith’s face, trying to spot a smidge of discomfort, or hesitation. Something to tell Shiro that he didn’t want this.

It was futile, Keith knew. He couldn’t hide enough how much he wanted anything Shiro would offer.

Maybe realizing that same thought, Shiro’s gaze eased back into that warmth – it never really left, pushed to the peripheries – but they returned with full force, like a chorus slanting back to a song.

_ Don’t think I’m weak. _ Keith pleaded, maybe silently – maybe with the thought blaring like sirens.  _ Please don’t think I can’t be here for you. I want to. Please, let me. Please. _

A part of Shiro must have heard him, some small snippet of that wish must have escaped his lips – because Shiro’s lowering himself slowly, easing the support from his arm and his knees, straightening his leg out.

Keith felt the weight – it was great, greater than he expected. Shiro was muscle, but not jagged edges and cut lines and angles too sharp to touch. He was boulder-heavy, lined in soft warm skin and dark hair, hollows behind ears and the shadow under his jaw. It didn’t hurt to touch him, to keep him up.

Keith thought it would hurt, he honestly did. He was so unused to it, to the feel of someone else relying on him — to be someone’s support. It’s a broken record of a song, the way it went back to the start and how Keith’s been running on tightrope that never seemed to end, and he had told himself that it was always going to be like that — that feeling of desolate loneliness, like a ghost unable to find its body.

But it didn’t — it didn’t hurt at all, and it didn’t feel bad at all and Shiro didn’t feel heavy at all, or maybe it’s because Keith’s wanted this and now he finally had it. He had this man in his arms, put to touch and to form the words he had waited for a Sunday and two, counting down weeks like counting down sand in an hourglass, watching the Wonder Wheel turn in the distance.

Shiro was just so… _ big.  _ Keith knew that – Keith knew it the moment he first got that polaroid, carried on motor engine oil and desert sand. It struck him, like a halberd cleaving through, when he stood in the middle of an airport and watched someone he had waited so long to meet arrive – and even without the right arm, Shiro was still larger than life.

Just something about him – the physical, or the idea of him, was so encapsulating, that it threatened to dwarf Keith. The idea wasn’t daunting, to be honest.

Shiro was all breadth and weight, ten acres and a hundred yards and several miles of oceans fit into a single body. He was seventy four letters sent, thirty hidden in the lower drawer of a cabinet, twin dog tags dancing over beating hearts and the thousands of seconds it took a day to come full circle.

Shoulders wide, torso long – Keith was utterly hidden under him. His arms remained around Shiro’s, still, and only the ends of his fingers caught. Shiro’s chest against Keith’s stomach, and his cheek pressed over where Keith’s heart was – in a perfect mirror of their earlier grasp, and Keith held on tighter.

“You’re here.” Shiro said, and Keith paused – realizing what that meant.

Keith nodded, and felt the soft graze of Shiro’s hair against his chin. “I’m here.”

Then, it sunk – that Shiro really was here. He wasn’t just a long-gone delusion he’s carried over the hundreds of times he’s walked past the café that sold petit-fours over and over; the times he’s stood at the cliffs and watched the sea rushing across the expanse in foam and waves, the city buildings small like beetles in the distance; the garbage can overflowing with unused carnival tickets, dates rushing after the other.

Shiro must have thought the same, or he must have experienced that same distance – that loss, the absence – because the breath he lets out is wet and heavy. This close, Shiro could hear his heart beat, matching his, and Keith could feel the pulse against Shiro’s wrist, his arm angling up to curl in his hair.

It hit home, then — that Keith wasn’t the only one feeling like this, that Keith wasn’t alone in his solitude.

Shiro had wanted this, too. He had wanted the touch, the capacity to release his guard, to allow another person to carry his reigns and let him rest against the pillar he’s been fighting for  _ for _ so long. Shiro had wanted this, and Keith had been a fool to question that for a moment — and it’s a criticism he’s only  _ too _ happy to take because it meant that he had not been alone, never been.

He must have felt that from Keith, definitely — because Shiro crossed a desert and two, flew over an ocean, on so many seas, to a place he never wanted to return because nothing had remained of what he had owned (only the dust of what’s been left, the outlines of what had promised to be there) until Keith had sent that letter.

Keith was here, now, and Shiro, too. 

It’s lucky they had each other then, right?

“You’re home.” Keith said, voice clear in the silent room. Only their breathing echoed, deeply-taken air – trying to inhale the other’s scent as strongly as possible.

Shiro nodded, slowly, and his skin was an ember that blazed into a cheerful fire that Keith could hold in his hands.

_ Home wouldn’t be home without you. _

 

* * *

 

__

Somehow — that simple action, of wanting Shiro close had been a lit cigarette to a dried-out bough that caught fire. It was next to impossible to let go of him, Keith realized. It was addicting: the warmth in the skin of another person, the way they reacted in so simple and complicated ways to his touch (the red flush on Shiro’s cheeks, the smile that’s always in his reach, the turn of his head as Shiro caught sight of him and it was Keith’s turn to flush), and the realization that he didn’t have  _ to  _ ask permission for this, that he’s not weird for wanting this.

Shiro would stand by the kitchen counter, and stare outside the window at the skyline — reminiscing, probably, at how the city’s changed in the time he’s been away — and Keith would watch the expanse of his bare back.  _ God, he’s just larger than life. _ Keith would think, only a sliver of embarrassment left to toil in his thoughts, as he takes three barefoot steps and a leap forward — wrap his arms around Shiro’s center, fingers padding over the gold skin, humming with a warmth of a furnace.

There’s just something so reassuring about touching someone — getting to hold them — a deepened realization that they were really here, or just the balm to a long-festered wound of someone who has been longing for this with an intensity that can almost be called obsessive, and not realizing it for what it was.

Was he weird, to want this? Shiro didn’t make him feel like he was — and Keith’s long stopped thinking about what other people had to say when it came to him and what he wanted when Shiro stumbled and slammed into his life.

He’s not weird to want this, Keith told himself. Understood it.

Because this — this was just one more step towards whatever they were, whatever path he and Shiro were taking, and Keith’s gone so long on it by himself and his own hands to keep. Shiro had come in, and everything was fine and dandy and swell, and Keith’s heart sometimes run twice its usual speed. Sometimes, it doesn’t run at all.

It caught sight of Shiro and it beat calmly, safe, content.

“What are you doing?” He asked, lips pressed over a shoulder blade. He could taste Shiro’s skin like this — clean sweat, that thin saline element to it, the wisps of desert air, and the very subtle ghost of soot — feel the pores stiffen under, the few spots on his back. Shiro leaned his head back, feeling Keith’s crown as an arm snakes its way in between, fingers grazing Keith’s belly pressed against Shiro’s hips.

The other turned in his arms, leaning against the counter. The sunlight cut through his hair, leaving gold strands, and over his skin. His arm around Keith’s waist, Shiro pulled him closer — silver leaning down to meet his gaze.

“City’s changed a lot.” Shiro answered, fingers pressing softly over the bare skin of Keith’s back, leaving indents along his spine that faded seconds after.

“Mmm, yeah. Five years, huh?” Keith asked, letting himself melt into the other, clutching at his back, lips finding a ledge on Shiro’s collarbone. He could feel his breathing like this, and the way Shiro hummed in response. He looked up. “We could visit those places, if you want. You never did tell me where you used to live, you know.”

Shiro smiled at him, his hand coming up — thumb against Keith’s jawline. He resisted the urge to shiver, at the intensity of the other’s gaze, or his fingers slipping under Keith’s hair to tease the skin behind his ear. “I guess I haven’t. Writing to you was always about  _ you _ , what I wanted to do with you. My past didn’t — it didn’t seem important.”

“Of course it is, doofus.” Keith replied, smiling as Shiro grinned wider at the harmless insult. He followed suit, raising his arms and hands to feel for the short strands on Shiro’s nape. It felt nice under his skin, not sharp — soft, like his hair — and his fingers slip through without obstruction. “Everything about you is important to me.”

It was the simple truth — everything about Shiro was important to Keith. He knew that there were still secrets, or maybe not secrets, just things that Shiro found it hard to discuss with Keith. 

He can sense it, in the way Shiro looked at him sometimes — that hooded gaze, caught on the sides with something heavy, in the moments he thought Keith didn’t notice — and Keith would like to know, but it wasn’t something he had the right to force out of the other. If Shiro didn’t want to talk about it, Keith wouldn’t want him to just for obligation — but if it could help, Keith would listen. He honestly would.

Maybe those words did something, because Shiro’s lips parted — as if to say something — but he closed them, unsure. Keith didn’t let the disappointment in him take over, leaning up to press a kiss against Shiro’s chin.

Shiro’s thumb pressed against his jaw as Keith took it up, pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth. He felt Shiro’s smile form — and a part of his heart skidded at what he had made. Keith did that.

_ Of course you did, _ a part of him thought.  _ You love him, and he loves you. Remember? _

How could Keith forget?

Combing his fingers up in Shiro’s hair, Keith locked his fingers behind his head and pulled him down, until he found Shiro’s lips. There was a chuckle, lost somewhere, and Keith let that smile slip away the last second before he kissed Shiro.

The grip on his jaw grew firm as Shiro leaned close, the hum vibrating against his lips as Keith allowed himself to get lost in the other’s taste.

Coffee. Coffee and that buttered toast and dandelion wine. Shiro tasted like summer, lips parting and Keith could only follow, could only take in the lines of embers that ran down his nerves, the intoxicating touch of something so tantalizingly addictive, just something so Shiro in that taste. It’s funny because the only things he knew of Shiro were cuts of an iceberg above the surface, and there was still the rest submerged, but Keith didn’t feel afraid of tha.

The kiss was something only he and Shiro shared, right now, and it echoed in him — something that was inherently his. 

Shiro hummed, as if asking Keith for closer — and Keith relented, wanted the same thing. He opened up, allowed Shiro in, and Keith gave and took and Shiro gave and took.

God, just the  _ swirl _ — the swirl of Shiro’s tongue against his, the messiness and the wetness, that mind-boggling feeling of being this close to someone, intimately and painfully and powerfully close that you can feel their heartbeat, the white-hot fire that didn’t  _ burn _ to touch under the gold skin.

It just amazed him, sometimes (no,  _ all  _ the fucking time), how heady this feeling was — to know Shiro this intimately, when he turned his head to the side, allowing the slopes of their noses to rest comfortably against each other instead of head-on, for Shiro to pull him closer, parting a bit to—

“Come up,” he whispered, causing Keith to open his eyes — see the hooded gaze, lined in gold. He didn’t really think he gave a semblance of a response, not one he could remember anyhow, because Shiro’s arm fell from shoulder to his bottom, twisting around like the smooth  _ asshole _ he was and is—

And up on the counter, a perfect reversal of their situation.

Shiro’s smirk was everything, and Keith chuckled against his lips. “Impressive.”

“I do what I can.” The other bit back, and Keith’s fingers played with the chain of the dog tag around his neck, seeing the sunlight beyond the window glittering amongst the gold flecks in Shiro’s eyes.

The air was still, the room was silent and time seemed unmoving, and Keith just wanted to lock them in this trance forever.

“What are you thinking?” Shiro asked, looking at him. Wanton, wanting, waiting.

“Kissing you.” He answered honestly, and leaned in to put action to word, meeting their smiles together. He’ll never get tired of this, Keith knew. This contact, the high — all of it — and he’ll always look for it in the places he knew will have his mark.

It was Shiro’s turn to lean against him, and Keith failed to notice the cold tiles of the counter or the one pressed under his thighs — not when he had Shiro’s hips to wrap around and pull close — and the warmth on his back and up front from Shiro’s chest was intense, and snug.

_ I could do this forever _ , Keith thought as Shiro pressed an open mouthed kiss against the line of his jaw. His eyes fell shut, mouth falling open in a gasp as Shiro grazed the line with his teeth — the lines of fire turning to red rivers down widening veins and muscles aching in interest. The legs around Shiro’s hips folded tight, the same as the fingers in Shiro’s hair and the ones drawing lines across his back.

Shiro whimpered — a soft sound that had Keith turning in to chase his lips because, God,  _ fuck _ , he sounded so good like that. Keith wanted to hear more of that, not needing his vision to find Shiro’s lips, find the quiet pants that pointed the way home — easiness, the security, the walls falling away to let Shiro come bursting in.

The fire pooled in his belly, down his groin and into the center, and Keith knew that if they didn’t stop, then he will definitely get a boner. A part of him wanted to be ashamed of how quickly he got aroused, if it weren’t for the feel of Shiro’s own boner pressing against the underside of his thigh, when every graze of it against Keith’s skin had Shiro’s lips parting, a needy gasp escaping before being swallowed whole.

Keith didn’t know the first thing about what to do in a situation like this — sure, he jerked off, here and there and, yeah, he’s seen porn — but this was different. This was a real life situation with someone he loved, someone he wanted to do things the good way, the best way because he wanted it that way.

And Shiro—

He knew Shiro wanted it, the physical anyhow — but a hand is a hand, and a thigh is a thigh, and a kiss can arouse anyone if pushed to the limit, and he wanted and needed to know if Shiro also wanted it, even without the arousal—

And he didn’t know if it was too soon, with the arm and all, or if it was too fast — they haven’t even really talked yet, and they should, right?

Keith’s lips fall open, allowing Shiro to turn his head, feel his tongue against his and Keith moaned, open, as Shiro’s teeth caught on his lower lip, pulling it a bit before leaning back. His tongue lapped at the sides, down the curve, before turning the other way and Keith’s eyes opened a bit, saw the line of silver under eyelids too heavy before Shiro kissed him again.

They should really talk, right? About things?

Because Keith wanted to things right, and he wanted to do all the things that he should and want to  _ with _ Shiro. He wanted his first times with Shiro — all of it with him, and he didn’t know how Shiro would feel about that, about him with his inexperience and clumsiness and words that spill jumbled and mashed, and the fingers that were too love-dumb to draw straight lines down curved spaces.

“I—mmf—-I, uh,” Keith managed to break away for a moment, to speak. His voice had gone low, throat rough and Shiro paused, foreheads still pressed against each other. This close, his silver-taupe eyes were pushed to the sides, almost lost in the wideness of his pupils. Fuck, his lips were red and bruised and Keith bit his own, unable to stop the course of  _ want _ at that.

Shiro’s eyes fell to his lips, and he made a move — to lean in — before Keith palmed his chest, smiling at the question in Shiro’s eyes as he stepped back. “I just—”

“Is,” Shiro cleared his throat, and Keith breathed deep as the shiver it caused ran up his spine. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, low, nodding. He smiled wider at Shiro. “Everything’s perfect.”

Shiro didn’t say anything then, choosing to wander his gaze about his face, trying to see — perhaps — if Keith wasn’t saying the complete truth. “But?”

Keith ducked his head, his hands falling to Shiro’s left, twining their fingers together as his free hand played with the lines of his veins down his arm. He’s quite sure the blush on his face is visible, and it helped (just a bit) that Shiro seemed just as flustered — his cheeks red, his gaze hooded, and he seemed to hang on to every word out of Keith’s mouth like a lifeline and a trance.

“I just—” Keith paused, thinking of the words. “I want you. I know that you know how much I want you.”

“I want you, too.” Shiro answered, just as quickly — as earnest — and Keith’s heart tugged at the brightness in his eyes, and his muscles clenched at just how much they could show each other their want. “Baby, I want to make love to you. I want to kiss you hard and soft, I want to touch you and make you feel good. You know that, right? You know how much you make me feel good?”

Keith nodded, determined to not look at way even if his felt like it could fry an egg with how hot it is, and persevering to keep that chain of thought unless his mind decided to throw caution to the air and take Shiro up on his offer...for hours. “I know. I never doubted that, not once.”

Shiro opened his mouth, to ask, and Keith pressed his thumb to the other’s lips — to still him, or stop him from saying more things that will push Keith’s heart to overdrive, or both. He didn’t question what Shiro was saying, seeing the honesty in the grey-browns of those eyes, but if Shiro kept talking, Keith was bound to press him against the wall and get really familiar with all of him.

Which wasn’t a bad thought,  _ per se _ , but it’s not — it’s not the way Keith wants, not yet. Not for their first time.

“I love you.” Keith said, and he smiled and ignored the way his vision blurred, or his senses tripped, as he felt Shiro’s lips mouth the words back. “I know, darling, but this is my first time.”

He watched, pausing, as the realization hit Shiro full force and Keith can’t—

He can’t describe the confusion in those eyes turn to surprise, want, something heated and yet morose, and then another emotion that had Keith’s dick bobbing in his boxers, his hands sweating and his lips fighting the urge to release a whimper — that one last emotion, Keith knew. It was like want, but something closer to possession, to owning and Keith swallowed, because Shiro knew then what Keith meant.

This was his first time, and Shiro would be the one he was going to share that with.

Before he could get distracted by how open he felt when Shiro’s gaze mapped his entire body with intent, Keith pulled his chin up. “I want to share that with you.”

Shiro nodded, slowly, and he looked entranced — as if communication was muddled, echoing through water. “I want, too. I want to be your first.”

Shiro’s eyes met his. “I want to be your only.”

_ You already are. _ Keith almost said, but he didn’t — not because it’s not the truth (it was, God, it honestly fucking was) but saying so would distract, and would shatter what self-control he has and Shiro’s just so—he brings out things from Keith, things that would make him blush and sputter when on any other day, when he thought of saying so to his friends. Things that he only wanted to share with Shiro, and if he allowed the words to escape, he’ll never find the strength to say what needed next.

Swallowing again, because that look can dry an ocean, and scorch a desert, Keith continued. “I just — I’m not ready yet.”

“Okay, I get that,” Shiro nodded, agreeing, and there was an understanding note to his voice and Keith’s chest swelled to sizes bigger than he wanted to know. “I can wait for you, Keith. No matter how long, alright? You don’t have to be afraid of me pressuring you, sweetheart. Not at all.”

“I know,” Keith said, and smiled and giggled, allowing himself to lean close and drop a kiss on Shiro’s earnest lips. The other grinned into his kiss, chasing it as Keith leaned back. “I never doubted it, not once.”

He raised his hand to trace the line of Shiro’s haircut, the mismatch of gold tan skin under the desert sun and the lighter one from under his hair. Shiro turned his head to press a kiss to Keith’s wrist, gaze never breaking. Keith has to say it, he knew he had to. Better out than in, and better to rip a band aid, anyway.

“I think it’s also good, to wait.” He spoke, letting Shiro’s kiss turn to courage that thrummed in his veins. The other made a humming sound, nuzzling against Keith’s wrist. “I want to wait. For you. I want to wait for you, too.”

Shiro paused, eyes widening.

Keith’s fingers ran gently down the side of his neck, drawing shapes into his skin. He never broke eye contact with Shiro. “I think we both have things to work out before we get to it. There are things that have happened, things I never said in the letter. I think you know that, too. The same way I know that there are things that have happened that you never said in your letters. We both have to talk about this, one day.”

Shiro didn’t say anything, not yet — and Keith didn’t allow himself to blubber in panic even if the desire to beat against his lips desperately, as if wanting to take it back to allow themselves to return to that bubble. Shiro wasn’t pulling away, at least, and Keith watched Shiro’s face, looked for a sign — the curl of his lips, a furrow of the brow, anger or frustration, just  _ something _ — 

The other breathed deep before standing, and Keith almost made to pull him back but he didn’t ( _ no, no _ , let him do what he needed to do, don’t force him—) and he told himself he was okay if Shiro wanted some air or to go somewhere else even if his heart tightened so hard, it was impossible to breathe, terrified at the thought of having done something to put this wall between them—

Shiro turned and leaned his head against Keith’s shoulder, the upper weight of his body against Keith, threatening to push him over but Keith wrapped his arms around Shiro instead, feeling the slow rise-and-fall of his back as he breathed.

“Shiro?” He asked, a moment later, feeling the other’s warm breath fan out against the curve of his shoulder.

“Just a sec,” Shiro asked, and Keith nodded — knowing the other could feel it. “Let me just lean against you, alright?”

“Always.” Keith answered, almost automatically — something about that caught on his lungs and his belly and the air in them.

“You oughta come with a warning.” Shiro chuckled, slow. “I just — looking at your eyes, seeing you happy. You know you can make a man do anythin’ by just looking at them?”

Keith felt his face flush again, and some sound hummed against his lips and, thank  _ fuck _ it didn’t come out because he would have no explanation for that.

Shiro chuckled again, leaning deeper and curling in closer. “Your eyes, your lips, your face, your body. Just you, really. Somethin’ about you makes me just want to keep touching you, holding you. Kissing you. Want all those first times with you.”

His heart was racing, a hundred miles a minute soaring louder than a jumbo jet. Funny, only their breathing echoed around the ceramic mugs, and steel utensils and glass windows. Shiro felt that — he must have, right?

“Lettin’ the world know that you’re mine, that nobody else will get to share those first times with you. Just me.” Shiro continued, voice still low and pulling Keith along with it to the depths, the cold never able to touch him — not with the white-hot fire streaking and routing into fumes and flickers of lightning.

“Looking at you makes me want to forget everything else. Fit you in my pocket and carry you with me against my heart somewhere far away.” Shiro pressed a light kiss against his shoulder — just appreciation, an easy caress of his lips. “But that’s not right. You don’t deserve that.”

_ You don’t deserve turning into an easy way to forget, and an easy way to cling to what’s important to remember. _

Keith ran his finger down an old scar across Shiro’s bicep. Old gun wound, grazed by a stray bullet so long ago. He had almost lost him, Keith realized. Once. Keith had almost lost him before he even met him.

His arms grew tighter around Shiro.

The other leaned up, not moving away — just looking up, to meet his gaze. Keith didn’t turn away, ready to take what Shiro wanted to give without cringing, without the easy way out.

“I know what you mean.” The other admitted, voice low, brows slightly furrowed. Uncomfortable, but Shiro’s eyes shone with determination. “I know that we have to talk, and I know that I’ll need to talk about things, one day. You deserve that — to know. You deserve to know what happened to me, not just the arm. You deserve to know everything.”

Keith nodded, answering Shiro’s unmasked gaze with his own. “Not until you’re ready, and I’ll wait. No matter how long.”

“I know.” Shiro said, then smiled. “It’s funny because we’ve talked so much in our letters, and I’ve held you for two days and I know that there’s still so much I have to learn about you — but I know. I  _ just _ know that what you’re saying is true. That you’ll wait for me.”

“It’s funny,” Keith agreed, watching his reflection floating in Shiro’s eyes. “Because I can say the same thing, and I know you’ll wait for me, until I’m ready.”

“I will.” Shiro confessed, repeated — as if saying it will carve himself deeper into Keith, as if his name wasn’t already emblazoned on Keith’s heart. “I waited my whole life for you, and I can wait some more.”

“Hopefully not too long,” Keith teased, a bit, otherwise his vision would turn into miasma and he wouldn’t able to stop himself from kissing Shiro breathless, the same way Shiro left him feeling sometimes with his words and touches, his impassioned words. “Not very long.”

“Hopefully.” Shiro’s eyes flashed dark with want again, but they remained the way they were, and Shiro only traced his finger around the curve of Keith’s brow. “You’re more than that, though. Not just the physical, and the sex.”

“Good to know.” Keith smiled, seeing the mirror of it on Shiro’s lips — taupe eyes reflecting the sunset.

“You’re just—” Shiro paused, thumb under Keith’s jaw, and looking up at him with a force that left him grasping for air, “more. You’re more than all that. You’re everything.”

_ Everything. _

Can Keith even remember how to breathe at this point?

Because that word was nothing and everything, and it wasn’t just a confession and admission, but an entire promise all on its own and Keith doesn’t get that. He doesn’t get promises a lot. He doesn’t get the sworn words, and the faith and the commitment to it — because Keith’s never had to be promised anything, wont as he was to keep his head down and let life take him wherever it wanted to, even if it was in a circle that kept rotating around the same lonely place.

But now — now that Shiro was here, now that Shiro was in his space and up his frame and bulldozing the thin walls of that prison and showing him what he had been missing, that promise was everything.

Shiro was Keith’s everything, and he just — sure, he knew what the other must have thought, somewhere in their little conversations and heartfelt admissions. Shiro must have thought, at least once, on how Keith was young — young and impressionable — and he must have thought that Keith was inclined to feel too much, to want too much for a single moment and disappear the next, like an impetuous candle flame that could easily go out.

It’d be understandable, for Shiro to think that — but Keith wasn’t. He couldn’t, not  _ now _ and maybe not ever — he could never imagine feeling this way for someone else. Maybe it’s one part his naivete, another his solitude and maybe it’s just the whole part of Keith still reeling from the emotional upheaval of loving someone so intensely, it threatened to burn him out.

Maybe it’s all that, and Keith would need to dissect that, one day. A challenge to himself, and one he promised himself to do — for Shiro.

And Shiro’s why he was here now, and this was Shiro’s mountain to jump over, and Keith could only show him — in whatever little way made possible for him, that yes, he was Keith’s everything, too.

Shiro blinked, and his eyes were wet. “I just want to deserve you, and I can’t — not with things still weighing me down. Not until then, no matter how much I just want to wrap you up and find some way to keep you inside my heart.”

The honest smile, the quirk of his lips and the tension gone from his brows — or the stars finally gaining clarity in the sky, and their reflections falling and turning into the gold flecks in Shiro’s eyes? Keith didn’t know — he just kept Shiro close, lost in his gaze, entranced in his words, wondering if it was possible to feel this  _ wanted _ and  _ right _ and just so  _ happy _ .

“You’re what I want, for the rest of my life.” His words continued, banged on the glass windows, tore through the thin walls and knocked gently against his heart. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next, or how the future’s gonna be and you’re still—I just want to deserve you, is all.”

_ You already do. Do I deserve you? _

Keith didn’t say any of that — that was his mountain to jump over, his hurdle to crawl through. Instead, he smiled and kissed Shiro.

What they said — the words in the air — even though they only traced the edges of those mountains, they were already too heavy, too heavy for either of them to start on something. Keith could feel the arousal lash, but softly, quietly — turn into embers to keep themselves warm, a promise for another day. Shiro’s lips were sweet and gentle on his, feeling the same somehow — and Keith knew that. The realization that he knew that, without needing to say anything, was just breathtaking.

Shiro smiled, and grinned and Keith followed right after — because that’s what people do when a star rushes by, right? They point with their fingers, follow with their gazes and their hearts are tugged out of their bodies and carried along the constellations with them?

The sun was almost gone in the horizon, and the buildings were purple-black outlines and Keith could be wrong about that or he could be right, but he didn’t turn his head away, watching Shiro watching him.

“Hey,” Shiro prodded, and Keith hummed.

“What?”

A quirk of his lips, curling into that lopsided smile Keith loved best — because it made Shiro’s eyes glitter even further, and made him look younger and the troubles dimmer. Most of all, Keith was the only one who could pull that out. Like all things, he’s not sure about that but he also believed he wasn’t wrong.

“I love you.” Shiro said. Again, and again. Dandelion wine, cottonwood and summer. Crimson and clover, and his Norman fucking Rockwell painting him happy and blue. Keith’s hands tightened around him on instinct, and sunflower fields whistled and danced in the winds under a clear blue sky, and his heart tripped, swung on a pendulum and arrived on safe harbor.

A million things and one, in three short words that spanned seventy-four letters and thirty, ten acres and a hundred miles and several heartbeats turned into warbands that didn’t know how to stop marching. Shiro was looking at him, now.

“I love you too.” Keith answered back, watching the wonder in Shiro’s eyes at those words.

Keith grinned, leaning in to peck his nose. “And like you.”

Shiro chuckled, and Keith leaned in again. “And want you.”

“And something you.” He pecked him again, and Shiro’s chuckles flew from roost to soar as full-blown laughter, breathing life into the too-long, too-quiet walls of Keith’s house and his heart.

God, Shiro was so beautiful, and Keith moved without thinking it, really.

He leaned and pressed a kiss to Shiro’s skin, the one above the bandage of his right arm, until his lip felt the cloth of the gauze. “I love you.”

Shiro was staring at him, wide-eyed and soft and just — utterly vulnerable, and Keith pulled him closer, and he knew — Shiro will tell him that, one day. Shiro will bare his heart and it will  _ hurt _ and Keith would want nothing more than to erase the pain, and though he can’t, he’ll be there — he’ll always be there.

_ If you’d let me, I’d cherish you a lifetime. _ He did promise, didn’t he?

Running his hand back down to Shiro’s, stringing their fingers together, Keith jumped down from the counter and up into Shiro’s space, swaying to a song only they could hear. Shiro’s eyes were on him — always on him, burrowing with warmth and want and that wonder and hope.

Keith couldn’t pretend he didn’t look the same, that he wasn’t as lovestruck as the other was.

A tug of their fingers, and Keith cocked his head to the side — pointing to the rest of the kitchen.

“I was thinking lemon meringue pie, and maybe a strawberry tart?”

They could make do with that, Keith’s quite sure he did the groceries this week. Maybe. Somehow, with Shiro’s smile — he wasn’t worried.

Keith pulled him forward, and he felt Shiro follow, stepping close until his bare front was against Keith’s back. They fit perfectly, he knew. He didn’t have to ask.

“Don’t pies take a long time?” Shiro asked, as Keith let go of his hand to pull out aprons from under the table. He turned to the other, hoisting one over Shiro’s head and leaning against him, arms behind to tie it — snug. Shiro looked down at him with that crooked smile — that was going to be a distraction, one day.

Shiro would smile at him from across the street like that and Keith would walk into a speeding car, mesmerized.

_ He’ll definitely catch you.  _ Keith thought.  _ I don’t know how, but he will and he’ll fly in like a superhero and sweep you off your feet. Well, sweep you off again, anyway. _

“They do.” Keith agreed, and then slapping Shiro’s bare hip under the apron. “Pans, lower counter. Butter, fridge. Ladle, drawer. Get to it, soldier.”

The crooked grin turned wolfish, all teeth and wide and Shiro’s eyes flashing with humor. Fuck,  _ all _ of his smiles will be distractions. He was going to put a ban order on them soon, for the sake of his blood pressure.

Shiro nodded, walking behind him to get to the counter Keith had pointed to. Tying the apron behind him, Keith failed to notice Shiro standing back, and leaning close — lips close to his ear, hand trailing the side of his thighs.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Shiro breathed, and Keith whispered ‘ _ fuck _ ’ under his breath and sent Shiro laughing as he placed the pans back on the counter.

Keith would like to think that he was impervious to distractions during the entire thing, but that was lying — not when in the middle of beating eggs and melting the butter, a kiss turned two to three that had gold turning to brown, and the oven smoking for a second far too long (a second that turned into a minute) because Keith found all the sounds Shiro was making  _ fascinating _ when he tried to draw shapes with his lips into the other’s jaw.

Still, sitting on the bar stools, legs tangled under — Shiro’s hand on Keith’s knee, squeezing in reassurance as Keith forked a slightly-burnt meringue pie and barely-whipped cream off the strawberry tart — everything was alright. Shiro crossed his eyes at the fork getting closer to his lips, and Keith pressed the whipped cream against his nose, leaving a trail as the other groused.

A fork or two, turned to a dozen and three, left crumbs and whipped cream and a strawberry slice on the counter top. Shiro started recounting _another_ of his and Mitch’s crazy adventures back in the military academy, and Keith watched him — unable to take his eyes away. The whipped cream was still there, and they were still in their aprons, and they both probably need a shower soon but the night was warm, and the passing car lights turned to stars that colored the ceiling and his heart and stomach were both full. Shiro smiled and laughed, like he belonged here. He did. Keith never contested that.

All shades of gold and silver, California open air and Bedford station.

The wheels had rolled, and Keith’s finally found a house and a home, in a man like a suitcase made of stars.

This northern hemisphere — no longer empty, no longer alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> _And there’s lights up in the north,_   
>  _and I ain't wondering where you are._   
>  _Yeah, just lights up in the north._
> 
> _Now it’s white as snow,_   
>  _watch the evening glow_   
>  _across Idaho._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You can catch me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny)!


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